Saturday, December 28, 2013

The Legend of Arthur J. and The Gold Cups

Describing a punk band from the deep, dark past has always been hard work but when there's precious little documentation on the band then it's well near impossible. I played in a first wave Hollywood punk band (1977-1978) called Arthur J. and The Gold Cups and although we played with every huge band of the era (Avengers, X, Germs, etc.) we never recorded, so there's almost nothing to go by, but that's never stopped me before.

Arthur J. and The Gold Cups was named after two Hollywood coffee shops that catered to gays; Arthur J.'s was on the corner of Santa Monica and Highland - it's now a strip mall. The Gold Cup was on the corner of Hollywood and Las Palmas and it's now a trendy tourist trap tattoo parlor. Both establishments provided late night hustlers and Quaaludes.

One block away from the The Gold Cup was a tiny alley off Cherokee Avenue with a huge steel doorway that took you down to a basement that held several rehearsal rooms; a long, cavernous room with a stage; and tons more space for anyone to do whatever they liked. This was The Masque, leased and operated by Brendan Mullen, founder and drummer of Arthur J. and The Gold Cups.

In Charles Martin Sharp's brilliant book on the Los Angeles avant garde music scene, "Improvisation, Identity and Tradition: Experimental Music Communities in Los Angeles", he described The Gold Cups as "attracting and bringing together people who were already interested in experimental aesthetics by merely advertising for members at The Masque".

In Mullen's book "We Got The Neutron Bomb" I am quoted as saying, "When I saw the bulletin at The Masque for Arthur J. and The Gold Cups, everything that was listed in that ad was right up my alley. I said 'this is the band of my dreams' cause it mentioned Ornette Coleman, Sun Ra, James Brown, The Soft Machine, T. Rex, The NY Dolls, and The Sex Pistols all in the same band. I couldn't believe it. This in some bombed-out punk basement? A pretty sick concept. Then I found out it was Brendan and Spazz (Attack, Gold Cups vocalist) and Geza (X, Gold Cups guitarist) and a bunch of other people who worked at The Masque who jammed there all the time for fun, so I rushed home to get my horn".

When The Gold Cups first performed it was on a Sunday night at The Masque. I passed on playing the first show because rehearsals were a shambling mess with no direction all, and I lived to regret not playing that night because the band was simply amazing. On stage there were three Deadbeats (Geza, Pat & Scott), The Moreland Brothers from The Skulls, Hal & Kelly (Weirdos roadies), and Brendan on drums.

Center stage on vocals was Spazz Attack, so named for simulating a full blown twitching and drooling seizure and performing eye-popping back flips - he always landed on his feet, brilliant. In addition to being a brilliant acrobat Spazz also designed his own punk-bondage fashions. He had a crazy habit of dyeing his hair - two, sometimes even thrice a week. Ouch! He's notorious for his strait jacket seizure in Devo's classic "Satisfaction" video. It's right after Booji Boy sticks a knife into a toaster.

The band sounded like they were combining The Standells with John Coltrane's "Ascension", furthering the punk big band sound with a dense wall of sound: two guitars, two keyboards, a horn section and drums that played whatever the fuck it wanted to. The band always returned to Earth by drifting into The Soft Machine's "We Did It Again", which sounded more like "You Really Got Me" than the hoary psych classic, but that's the point. Musical anarchy made reality, and not just sloganeering about anarchy from the musically structured punk bands.

Although they only played for half an hour it was the greatest drag noise band of all time, Brendan, Geza and Scott wearing makeup and dresses serving up some Albert Ayler realness. I couldn't kick myself hard enough for boguing out on this awesome punk display!

I finally pulled the stick out of my ass and returned to the band a week later and toughed out the rehearsals - try getting nine mentally disturbed musicians to show up to rehearsal at the same time. Mission impossible! We ended up learning a few ridiculous covers, like The Beach Boys' awful "Long Tall Texan", the Cal Worthington used car ads commercial jingle, The Challengers' surf classic "Out of Limits" and we also did "Miserlou" (aka the Pulp Fiction theme song). "We Did It Again" always got played every six minutes.

I wore a mask on stage every time in honor of the now departed Marc Moreland, who wore a mask that fateful night on stage, to maintain the tradition of masked musicians. This not only got me attention when we played but I even scored a pic in Slash Magazine when our show got reviewed. Unfortunately nobody knew it was me on stage. I was always in disguise!

Reviews for the band were always hateful - the LA Times said our "joke wore thin" and even Slash Magazine said we were "annoying". I've met both reviewers in person since those reviews and I assure you these are the two most pompous, humorless people I've ever met, so the reviews weren't terribly shocking.

Since Brendan promoted the band he'd package three-day weekend shows at The Whisky A Go Go with us playing every night and a revolving door of punk bands supporting us. We played with The Avengers, X, The Alleycats, The Dils, Negative Trend, Black Randy & The Metro Squad, The Plugz and The Germs.

The band had one particular fan at the time: running down to LA after his band's legendary show at Winterland in 1978, Malcolm Maclaren saw the band perform at The Whisky and enjoying our penchant for shambling punk covers, he returned to England to produce "The Great Rock 'N Roll Swindle" featuring, you name it, shambling punk covers of songs like "My Way" and "You Need Hands". Oh well, it was cool seeing him laugh his ass off at our show.

With the band's advancing notoriety new members joined: Paul Roessler (Screamers, Nina Hagen) on keyboards, Hector Penalosa of The Zeros on bass, Steve Berlin of The Blasters on sax, Jeff Jourard of The Motels (!) on guitar, KIra Roessler of Black Flag on bass. It was a busy rehearsal studio.

The usual humbug broke the band up: a side project called Hal Negro & The Satintones featuring half the band doing awful lounge music covers, combined with a more polished and ordinary set of covers (Love Potion Number Nine, Let's Get Together from the movie The Trouble With Angels). The drag and the noise disappeared, no fun. Plus some of the members took the band way too seriously.

Geza left to pursue his own band Geza X & The Mommy Men and became one of the foremost producers in the industry, Spazz joined Toni Basil's dance troupe, Pat Delaney became a college professor and Brendan wrote several successful rock biographies. Everyone left and did better, anyway, even me.

Slash Magazine ultimately delivered the best eulogy for The Gold Cups. It went something like this: "One of the most lunatic outfits to hit the scene, but unfortunately one of the flakiest. Made up of various outcasts from other bands, The Gold Cups also featured some inspired fringe cult figures. In limbo at the present, but if everyone involved (all 250 of them) ever learns to show up at rehearsals at the same time their long promised comeback may add a welcome touch of madness to concert nights. Probably forever unrecordable".

To read more about Spazz, Geza and Brendan pick up "We Got The Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk" by Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen, available on Three Rivers Press.

"Improvisation, Identity and Tradition: Experimental Music Communities in Los Angeles" by Charles Martin Sharp can be read via Google Books.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Les Voleurs (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter Ei8ht)

11 AM. It was a cloudy morning at the Angelus National Forest. Jason and his henchmen had their guns drawn and were deep in target practice, shooting at bottles, cans and posters of Queen, Yes, The Eagles and other dinosaur bands propped up.

The partners in crime weren't noticed firing away outside of a few sports hunters giving them the fish eye. Robotman's brother Franco loaned them the guns and only half the guns were operable. The other half were problematic and worked badly.

BANG! BANG!! BANG!!!
"It figures my brother would come up with some shitty pistols", Robotman griped, jerking his neck nervously in between shots. Jason strolled behind each shooter, inspecting their aim and judging their aptitude.

"Mine keeps jamming", King Steve frowned. "Did he do this on purpose?"
"I wonder", Jason mused, smelling a rat.
"Mine works fine", The Fireball Kid smiled, his flaming red mane flashing against the gloomy gray sky. "I just shot out Freddie Mercury's horse teeth, Glen Frey's smelly beard, and Rick Wakeman's tiny dick".
"Well done, fuck face".

"My pistol's cool but I gotta go pee. Here, Robot", Allen Wrench handed his gun over to Robotman. "Be back in a few, Big Jace".
"Yeah, sure".
Allen Wrench drifted off to the Ford Mustang borrowed for the job, parked off the beaten path to discourage any suspicion.

Robotman squeezed out a few rapid shots at Jon Anderson's chest, enjoying the new gun.
"Now that's what I call shootin'!"
Wrench has been gone too long for a piss. What the fuck? Jason wondered.

"Yo, Steve, hand me the binoculars, willya?" Jason asked.
Steve put his crap pistol down, handed over the binoculars and then grabbed the thermos with hot coffee, taking a short break.
"I'm no gunman, fuck this shit!"
"You can say that again", Jason mumbled, aiming the binoculars at the Mustang, sharpening the magnification.

Allen Wrench wasn't taking a pee at all, just like Jason thought. He was inside the car leaning over the dashboard with a straw in his nose inhaling over a tiny mirror. I should've known...this isn't the time for this kind of bullshit...it's almost show time and now this...guns that don't shoot and a fuckin' wired wheelman...what was I thinking about, bringing in all these people...maybe I should call it off...fuck...it's too late...Jesus, Patrick and Seamus.
He sighed deeply, getting cloudier than the sky.

"Okay, executive decision", Jason spun around, facing the gang. "Fireball, you'll be slinging guns. Steve, Robotman, I have other plans for you guys. You guys'll be running subterfuge, it's a lot safer than busting caps, and -"
"-Sorry I took so long, guys. I'm back!" Wrench walked down the hill wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.
Everybody laughed.

"The clouds too bright for you, asshole?" The Fireball Kid joked.
"This is my punk gangster look, douchebag. Got a problem with it?"
"Yeah, I can't steal shit if I'm laughing my ass off".
"I'll shoot that ass you're laughing off, dickhead".
"Not with these bullshit guns you won't", King Steve threw out the rest of his coffee out of the cup.

Wrench grabbed a Colt .45 off a rock and pointed it cocked at The Fireball Kid's head.
"HEY!!!"
The Fireball Kid jumped back and pointed his Luger at Allen Wrench's head in return. They both stared each other down with guns pointed at each other.
"Knock it off, you fuckin' clowns", Jason cursed.

"Think you're tough?" The Fireball Kid clenched his teeth. "My gun works, you're holding one of the junk guns. What do you think are your chances?"
Jason shoved his way between them. "The first person that shoots gets their balls ripped out and served in some Chink restaurant. KNOCK IT OFF, I said!"

Knowing that the Colt .45 would misfire he wisely chose to knock that pistol of the two, slamming it out of Wrench's hand.
"I've got a good mind to can both of you two clowns off this job. God damn it!"
The Fireball Kid put down his pistol.
"All we need is those fuckin' hunters to catch us shooting each other up and the job is dead before it even begins. Jerkoffs!"

12:45 PM. The offices of Rocket USA. Jack Sterling scratched the surface of his desk five times, picked up his phone two times, whispered "Longhorn" the name of his old TV show seven times, then got up and locked his office door.

He walked over to a tall, framed poster advertising his biggest show. He took down the poster which revealed a large, heavy wall safe.
He pulled out a key, unlocked the safe door, which opened to yet another door with a combination lock.
He then took out a tiny piece of paper which had his birth date along with knob turn directions.

Turning the knob carefully, he opened the safe which was deep inside. Sterling pulled sheafs and sheafs of bills, more than anyone ever suspected he had.

"Thank God it's all still here", Sterling thought. "I'd have to be crazy to trust a bank with all this fuckin' cash. Two-thirds of everything I've made from this club stays here and will never leave this place. Yeah, it was a good idea depositing thirty percent of the take into a bank to make it look kosher. Fuck, that was smart. No one will ever know how much I'm really holding. Yeah".

Sterling's paranoia was consoled in a few minutes of repetitious counting of bills. Hearing footsteps nearing his office, he quickly threw the money into the safe, locked up and put the poster back on the wall.

2:30 PM. Whenever Raquel Tequila felt down in the dumps she always put on David Bowie's "Diamond Dogs", the best gloomy record to cry or mope to. She already changed her clothes three times that day to cheer herself up, but it didn't quite work.
She laid on the sofa, sulking through "We Are The Dead", and by the time "Big Brother" came on Jason barged in.

"Where's Wrench? Is he here?"
Raquel looked up with tears streaming down her face. "No. That's all you're going to say? How about 'how's it going, baby'?"
Jason stomped over to the fridge and ripped open a can of soda.
"Yeah, whatever, what are you crying about?"

"Lily hasn't called me since the loft show. What did I do?"
"Didn't do shit. Lily's got shit to do, too, important fuckin' stuff. Fuck, Wrench bugged out on me and cut out. Did you know he's using?"
Raquel's eyes got bigger.
"What??? I never knew".
"Yeah", Jason crumpled the can and threw it on the counter top. "Him and his sodas. Shit, I knew he was playing that hyper shit some other way".

She exaggeratedly scratched her head. "Check the garage, maybe you'll hit pay dirt".
"Good thing I still have the pickup truck. Okay, I'm heading out".
"Hey! Are you going to be seeing Lily anytime soon?"
"Yeah, but don't blow your cool. I'm here, remember?"

Jason barreled over to her and grabbed her in a tight hug and kissed her.
"Everything's cool. I gotta run!"
As soon as he reached the door, he stopped and turned around.
"Fuck, I forgot, did you go to the Mexican toy store like I asked?"

Raquel wiped away the tears from her pretty face. "Yeah, I got your masks".
"Aw, cool, that's my girl!"
"Yeah, but all they had was Ringo. The other Beatles were taken".
Jason thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Well, I guess Ringo will do. Why the hell not?"

Thank you for reading "Every Bitch For Himself". The complete novel will be available via BookBaby this coming October 2014. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

F-R-I-C-T-I-O-N (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chap7er Seven)

Big Jason marched down Hollywood Boulevard taking locomotive steps, stomping on the thick balls of his feet, his beat-up Doc Martens getting a brutal work out. He walked by Bond Street Bookstore.

People turned around, openly staring at his silver hair. Some teenage girls with Charlie's Angels feathered hair openly laughed as he lurched by. Jason walked by Bert Wheeler's Magic Shop.

Black hustlers assessed him for a possible nickel and dime mugging, but nah, he was too buff, his clothes too ragged. And anyway, with silver house paint in his hair, that white motherfucker was prob'bly crazy as hell. Jason walked by Frederick's of Hollywood, Love's BBQ Restaurant, Supply Sergeant, Licorice Pizza.

Jason turned down Las Palmas Avenue and hocked a loogie in front of the window at Miceli's. This one's for the tourists. He slowed down in front of the tiny old shoe repair shop. ZOLTAN SHOE REPAIR. He rapped on the windowed door.

The store should be closed since it's a Sunday. The torn paper sign by the window even apologized. SORRY WE'RE CLOSED. Locks turned, the door knob clicked and the door opened. Jason and only Jason had that talent. Opening doors when others couldn't.

An old man with a full head of white hair wearing a blue smock smiled and welcomed Jason. "Come on in, my friend", Zoltan K shook hands. "Good to see you again".

"Zoltan K, the heel with lots of sole", Jason entered the old shop, looking everything over.
"Still telling terrible jokes but it's good to see you, anyway".
Zoltan Kovacs' shop was a darkly lit dust pit with beat shoes lined up behind the counter. A battery of old, greasy machines with grinders, dremels, buffers and other fixtures towered over the room against the wall. The counter top was scarred wood with a few leather cutting tools lying around.

"How much is it this time?" Zoltan K asked.
Jason pulled down his pants by ten inches and pulled out a money belt. He threw it on the counter top. Jason opened the belt. "Thirty thou, count it if you want, it's all there".

Zoltan K rubber banded the bills and made out a shoe repair ticket for Jason.
Jason sniffed. "Do you still have the safe?"
Zoltan shrugged. "Of course. Do I look like I changed anything?"
"Fuck no". Jason looked at the cash register nearby. "My grandfather's younger than that cash register. Don't you ever get new stuff?"
"Never. Jason, don't worry. No one will look here - just a lot of old machines, tired like their owner".

"I'll buy that. Got a lot more money coming in soon, got a big job coming up. What you see now is nothing".
"I have a big safe. Bring it all in, no one will ever know what's sitting in there. Don't tell anyone. No friends. Not the chicks, either".
"Definitely not the chicks".

"Lift up your pants. What are you wearing?"
Jason lifted his cuff.
Zoltan scoffed. "Pfff! Doc Martens. I can't make money on those. Rubber heels. Bad for business".
"Don't worry, I have money for you anyway. Take five thou off the top for storage".
"And the other five you owe me for last time?"
"Shit, okay. Fair is fair, Mister K".

They shook hands amicably. "Mark my words, after I pull this next job I'll bring in some Oxfords for you to wrestle with".
"It's a deal, kid".
Jason waved as he walked out the rickety doorway.

************************

If you kept your mouth shut, walked up the quiet street in the Hollywood Hills, you approached a gate by the cul-de-sac, you slipped through and walked up a woodsy dirt road winding up the hill, whereupon you reached the grounds of the Errol Flynn estate, decaying and forgotten by time. All that was left was a large empty pool at the hilltop with tall weeds growing through the cracks in the floor.

A party around the poolside was in full swing with about thirty punks guzzling beer, smoking joints and eating bad snack food. Jason joined the party, surveying the crowd. A cassette player played The Damned's first album as loudly as possible.

"Hey, Jason, I saw you at The Inflated Tear party last week. That was killer!" Johnny Stingray from The Controllers smiled, handing Jason a beer.
"Thanks, man".

The gang was all there, the Hollywood punks, the rich kids playing at being poor, urban, badass rebels as long as they had a golden cushion to fall back on. There were usual suspects: some Germs, Bags, Weirdos, Skulls, Controllers, Deadbeats, Mau Maus and a lot of kids who just hung out all strung out.

He spotted infamous punk Ridiculous Nicholas of The Fangs, well known for drinking pots and pots of coffee to the point of it reeking from his pores. Ridiculous Nicholas liked coffee because it expedited his bowel movements and he had a thing for scat and all things shit.

All of his jokes were either butt jokes or shit jokes and his scat fetish centered around his mother and some weird infantile poop obsession. Some even said he wore a diaper under his pants and liked to blow a bomb underneath. Jason swore he caught a whiff of something fucked coming from his direction so he spun around.

"Jason Gulliver, is that you?" a big, dark punk with even darker eyes smiled coldly. "It's me, Miggy!"
Miggy Sanchez was Jack Sterling's personal assistant, i.e. bodyguard, controversial for being part of the punk scene but still breaking arms and necks for his boss. No one ever knew what side he was truly on. His real name was Miguel but once he discovered The Stooges he changed his name to Miggy in honor of Iggy Pop.

Miggy put his hand out and Jason took his hand out to shake it but drew it back before they could shake.
"Psych!" Jason cracked.
"You're not still mad at me for almost breaking your hand last time, are you?"
"You and your stupid hand shakes suck and you never broke my hand so quit telling stories, Sanchez".

"Hey, have you thought about coming to the club anytime soon?"
Jason smirked. "Boy, if you only knew", he thought. "Nuh uh".
"Well don't, fucker", Miggy chuckled. "If you do I'll break your hands again. Just kidding!"
"Keep on trying, it might work for you, friend".

Punk rock kids were now lighting cigarettes and putting them out on each others wrists. They howled in pain while other kids laughed. Another punk passed around a razor blade and some boys slashed their chests while some girls slashed their breasts above the bra line.

"There goes the trust fund", Jason thought. "Explain that to your parents, you dumb Westside fucks".
Some party. Glam rock was weird but punk rock was sad, the unhappy, the negative, the disturbed, the bed wetters, the anti-God kids from Catholic School, the deformed, all headed to the dark side of the street by choice.

He looked out at what should have been a picturesque view of the Los Angeles city skyline, sunny of course, but it was soiled by a sky high smear of grayish brown smog all around. Everything should have been clear but it wasn't meant to be.

He winced when he saw Kate Craptastic, a short, fat punk girl who liked to crucify cats. Sometimes she just killed them for kicks and then brought them out on stage when she performed. Craptastic claimed her cat killing fetish was due to her father molesting her when she was eight years old. No one ever questioned it.

Unfortunately Kate took a liking to Jason and invited him to strangle a few cats with her. He told her he'd rather strangle her instead, which got her more excited. Afraid she might recognize him, he ambled over to an area more dense with people, his back turned to her.

A heavy-set thug in a bowling shirt and forked up hair stared at Jason. Chris Steakhouse (nee Stackhouse) was Miggy Sanchez's partner in brutality.
"Nice silver hair, pal. Did you see Miggy? He's here, you know".
"Yeah. I cock blocked his stupid handshake gag. It might have been funny when Thomas Jefferson tried it out on Ben Franklin, but now it's just old".
"Well, you ought to come by the club. I heard you played a pretty cool show the other night. I also heard you beat up some friends of mine, know what I mean, asshole?"

Steakhouse leaned in on Jason. "I could do a lot worse than Miggy's handshake, dick head".
Jason shoved him away. "Don't even think about it. I don't swing that way, shit pump".
"Just watch your ass, pal", Steakhouse's sneer melted into a grin. "Hey! I didn't even know those guys in that fag band. Just kidding!"
"Yeah, funny, I heard Julius Caesar fell off his dinosaur when he heard that one, douche guzzler".
"Ah, fuck you if you can't take a joke", he waved his hand dismissively.

Jason walked away and saw Holly Hell, guitarist from all-girl glam band The Hitchhikers stoned out of her gourd, eyes barely open, standing with a beer in one hand and lifting up her t-shirt with the other, while punks threw greasy lunch meat on her chest. Everyone laughed at her. Some threw mayonnaise-spattered bologna in her face.
"That's tough", Jason mumbled. "Stupid bitch".

He assessed the crowd with his cold eyes, looking around the bombed out movie star's home.

"Cowards, cunts, retards, fucking rich runts pretending to be bad, I want to rob all of you and shake your parents down for every penny, you pigs, you swine, you worthless overindulgent shits. I'll kill you, devour you and shit you out my ass and walk away with all your money, the riches I deserve. And your stupid punk rock club will end up in my back pocket. Spoiled, idiotic fucks".

He walked down the hill, slipped through the gate with the NO TRESPASSING SIGN and slid down a side street like a lizard in the desert come sunset.

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

Lower illustration by William Wray.

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Them Changes

Here we are at the end of 2013, which marks the end of the my seventh year writing “Out Demons Out”, and while it’s been nothing but fun it’s also been a lot of work. In light of that, I have decided to make the following changes effective next year, 2014 to my blog:

1. Serialized novels will no longer be available on Out Demons Out. This month I will post the last two chapters of Every Bitch For Himself online and then the rest of it will be available when the book is published in October of next year. The decision is based as a preventative measure against online plagiarism.

2. Out Demons Out will go bi-weekly. After seven years the task of coming up with fresh new content every week has been exhausting. Writing a new blog every two weeks will allow me more time to do a better job at writing. Besides, a week off will allow me time to finish my current novel.

What else is new? I've been listening to Junior Wells as well as his great guitarist, Earl Hooker (see above). Some people call them blues legends but it sounds pretty rock & roll to me. Call it what you will, there's some great stuff by them you ought to check out.

Before I go I just wanted to post a video of Kid Koala performing a live version of “Drunk Trumpet”. What makes this video so significant is that Drunk Trumpet is a track with some pretty involved scratching, braking and other finger-spinning turntable tricks, so it’s to Kid Koala’s credit that he flawlessly replicates the track perfectly in a live concert environment. If you liked this also check out his version of "Moon River" on You Tube. Check this out and enjoy!

Sunday, December 1, 2013

A Hanukkah Story

Since Hanukkah is falling abnormally early this year, on Thanksgiving even! I've decided to write a small tale for the holiday. Here it is:

It was December 1968 and I was a mere stripling of 12 years. It was a cold winter by Los Angeles standards and the holidays were approaching, Christmas and Hanukkah. Usually around Hanukkah we would visit a childless elderly couple, The Pollaks.

Although they were the happiest and warmest elderly people I have ever known, the Pollaks met under less than romantic circumstances. Henry Pollak was a concentration camp survivor who saw his wife and four daughters killed by the Nazis. Agnes Pollak also suffered through seeing her husband and children murdered in the camps. Survivors both, they shared their experiences and mourned together and eventually married. When my father came by to visit he would reflect his experiences with them. Most of his family was wiped out as well.

One night when we visited the Pollaks, they left the living room and my brother changed the channel on the TV from a wrestling show to a World War II war show ("Combat"). There was a scene when army tanks rolled into a small village and as we were watching it my father and the Pollaks came back into the room.

The normally mellow Mr. Pollak dropped his customary friendly tone and shouted at my brother, "CHANGE THE CHANNEL! CHANGE IT RIGHT NOW!"
"Put something nicer on. Take it off", my dad said.
A little freaked out by the reaction, my brother quickly turned the TV knob to the next station, taking us back to two wrestlers beating the crap out of each other and drop kicking each other in the face.
"HAHAHAHA, oh that's funny!" The Pollaks laughed hysterically.

*********************************

A week later we had assembly in the gym at school and there was a projector in the back. Nobody knew what they were going to watch. Sometimes we saw films like the instructional CPR training movie but this time no one knew.

The school principal, Rabbi Goldstein didn't help with his obscure introduction. Walking up to the microphone stand he simply said. "You are going to see a film about your future and your parent's future and your friend's future".

With the lights turned off, the film started and we watched a black and white film of concentration camps....Auschwitz, Dachau, Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen, Treblinka....a voice narrated over the footage of genocide.

"During the Nazi purge of World War II, Nazi Germany exterminated millions of Jews, young and old alike..."
-An emaciated Jewish boy with a shaved head and haunting eyes stares at the camera.
"...Man, woman and child, the Nazi death camps showed no mercy to anyone, slaughtering people by the hundreds whether by bullet or by gas chamber..."
-Piles of dead, emaciated, naked Jewish bodies are pushed into a huge, bottomless ditch by a tractor.
"...The Nazis showed no mercy to the Jews of Europe, even making lamp shades made from human skin..."
-Skeletal Jews are being gently carried out of the concentration camp gates by American soldiers, liberating them.

"With the end of the Jewish nightmare comes a new paradise, the State of Israel..."
-The film is now in color and shows olive groves around a sunny desert. The sky is a clear blue.
"A Jewish state brimming with industry and promise, one can live here safe from threats of genocide..."
-Fifties era Israel shows Israelis farming and laughing, enjoying their jobs on a Kibbutz.
"Women participate in the Israeli army or they work on a Kibbutz. A Kibbutz! A cooperative farm where man, woman and child enjoy the fruits of The Holy Land..."
-Footage of dark women in fatigues with rifles drilling, date trees in a static desert surrounding them.
"This is The New Holy Land, Jerusalem of Gold!"

The film ended with a rising crescendo of music to stir the soul and the lights turned on. The principal returned to the mike.
"After you graduate Hebrew school, I want you to consider Israel as your new homeland and work on a kibbutz. It would be a life-changing experience. Talk it over with your parents tonight!"

Returning to our regular classes, I wondered why I would give up a city that housed the Whiskey A Go Go, the Santa Monica Pier and Irwindale Raceway for a farm in the desert. I didn't even like looking at short-haired girls in shorts juggling rifles.

**************************************

My school would often employ Israelis newly arrived to the States as teachers. Many of them did not have teaching credentials at all, but as long as they could speak Hebrew they had a job. The worst teacher and class I ever had was the one called Jewish History. Jewish History consisted of a Six-Day War veteran named Mister Gur newly emigrated to the US teaching us what he did during the Six-Day War. He was a red-haired man with a handlebar moustache and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He spoke with a lisp and never bathed. Every day he wore the same white dress shirt open down his chest so you could see his chest hairs.

Class consisted of him pulling down a yellowed map of Israel in front of the blackboard and using a wooden pointer to show each little town where there was war action. He spoke very slowly and knew very little English. If you knew Hebrew you had a fighting chance of understanding him.

"Tho, we went to....Haifa and got our orderth to go the Gatha Thtrip, and blah blah blah..."
I started daydreaming.
"Hmmmm..." I thought. "If The Beatles put out a white album cover and The Rolling Stones also put out a white album cover does this mean EVERYBODY'S going to put out white album covers? That's so dull-"
"THEVRIN!!!! Are you paying attention? What did I jutht thay?"
"Um...." think fast. "You surrounded the Egyptians and they all surrendered!"
Everybody laughed. Mister Gur's face turned red.
"Go to the printhipal's offith!!!!!"

Great, now I have to tell the Zionist principal I didn't pay attention listening to a bunch of war stories.

***************************************

Most Gentiles don't really know what Hanukkah means, but most Jews, especially American ones don't really know what Hanukkah means, either.

Hanukkah is a holiday about the empowerment of the Jews who fought back against the Greeks when they took over the Second Temple and outlawed Judaism. A family of rebels named The Maccabees fought against them and emerged victorious. Hanukkah is a holiday celebrating Jewish strength over adversity and not one of sorrow or persecution.

**************************************

Today marks the Centennial birthday of my Uncle Alex who I wrote about in my story "Hungarian Kitchen Fight Club" (August 11, 2007). A remarkable man who began as a mechanic in my grandfather's machine shop, he survived The Holocaust and moved to the United States where he repaired motorcycles, maintaining a highly loyal clientele among countless biker clubs across the greater New England Area. When I asked him if he was offended by their swastikas, he'd just smile and say, "They don't really understand what the hell it means".

Although he worked long hours in his garage he still managed to find time to put on tefillin and pray in the morning. Happy birthday, Uncle Alex, 100 years old today.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Big Dust-Up (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 6ix)

Friday. 11 PM. Artist's District, Downtown Los Angeles. For one night only a dingy warehouse turned into a loft party called The Inflated Tear. The cheap xerox flyers distributed around Hollywood was an offer no scenester could refuse: for only three dollars you could drink all the keg beer or Bargain Circus wine your stomach could hold until you blow chunks plus three performers, performance artist Myra Wreck the Fridge, pop-punk heartthrobs The Forever Boys, and CBGB darlings Magic Lantern, all the way from the Bowery. All ages admitted, no bouncers, no rules, no shit.

Magic Lantern was a precious band of New York musicians who named themselves after French poets and artists, there was Johnny Baudelaire, the mysterious one on vocals and guitar, Doug Cezanne his junkie foil on bass and the ever popular Freddie Robespierre on drums. Little did their loyal following know that their appearance was canceled by the temperamental and powerful Jack Sterling of Rocket USA.

Tipped off on the cancellation by a friend of a friend, Big Jason Gulliver and his pals planned on crashing the loft party with their impromptu band The Chop Shop.

The loft building was pretty dark and cold and one had to enter a narrow passageway to get in, where a quick $3 and a Santa Claus rubber stamp on the hand got you in. There you would be assaulted by a wall of noise and dim lights around the "stage": two banquet tables raised a few feet for the performer to be marginally seen. A crowd was already assembled in the dark, drafty hall.

"Let's hit the keg!" Raquel Tequila nudged her friend Lily Electric. Together they comprised The Ghost Sisters, so named for their strange hair and even stranger eye colors that seemed to look through you.

"Did you bring your flask?" Lily asked, her cold gray eyes scanning the room for friends.
"Of course. I don't go anywhere without my tequila", Raquel smiled, her hazel eyes lighting the room. Both girls wore dark purple lipstick and dark green eye shadow and dressed in ripped up dresses with splattered house paint all over them.

"TELL ME WHEN THAT HAG'S DONE SCREAMING!" Lily yelled, her fingers planted in her ears. She was referring to Myra Wreck The Fridge who was on stage screaming and pouring Heinz Baked Beans all over her naked body to an audio tape of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries.
"WHAT???" Raquel yelled back, her ears plugged, too.

"Wait a minute!" They both stopped walking. Lily pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took two smokes out and tore the filters off both of them. She put both filters in her ears as ear plugs and handed Raquel one smoke and treated herself to the other. She lit her smoke and lit Raquel's also.
"Thanks, babe!" Raquel smiled, puffing away. They continued brushing through the crowd towards the beer keg.
"Fuck! Move, Fatso!" Lily shoved a fat punk in a dog collar and greasy spiked hair.

"Oh, fuck, great, just great!" Raquel groaned with irritability.
"Shit, what are they doing here?" Lily yelled over Myra's noisy caterwauling.

Standing around the keg like a pack of hippos were The "atrocious" Fliplets, Filipino punk triplets who dressed in corny Poseur bondage punk attire a la Sue Catwoman. Unfortunately their bondage outfits were three sizes too small so latticed flesh poked through their leather gear. There was Pinkie, Rose and Ginger, and they considered every punk girl to be competition for the men they desired, which was ALL OF THEM.

The Fliplets hated The Ghost Sisters and vice versa so they were giving each other eye daggers.
"Well, look who just rolled in from The Free Clinic", Rose sneered.
"Your mother gives her best regards", Lily pushed her way through the triplets. "Move over".

"Pinky, Rose, Ginger", Raquel greeted, taking a drag from her smoke as Lily filled her plastic cup with beer. "Nice fit. How's the bondage world? Still tying up your men like rodeo clowns?"
Lily cackled. Ginger spat her gum on the floor.

"Yeah, uh, nice fit", Lily guzzled beer and dragged on her smoke. Raquel took the cup from her and drank. "But next time I'd buy something in my size".
Pinkie blushed in her curly blonde flat top. "They don't sell anything in concentration camp size".

Rose laughed, beer coming out of her nostrils. "Yeah, you guys are so skinny I'd use your legs for a toothpick!"
"Why?", Raquel's eyes narrowed, "Did the string in your tampon break?"
"FUCK YOU, LEZ!" Rose screamed, ready to fight.

"Hey, Raquel, how's it goin'?" Flix Butler stepped in between them, grinning his handsome, winning smile. Butler wore lime green Fiorucci pants and had forked up red Crazy Color hair imported from Manic Panic. The lead singer of The Forever Boys, he had a very wholesome face which drove the girls all wild.
Lily couldn't stand him. His smile quickly melted upon seeing her.
"Oh, Electric, you're here, too".

"Hi, Flix, what's on your mind, Glamour Puss?" Raquel puffed nervously.
"Nuffin', I was just thinking, you know, I'm not doing anything after the show, and ya know", he rakishly winked at Lily, "if you ever get tired of the taste of fish I got some fine meat in the -"
"FUCK YOU, FLIX!" Lily threw her cigarette in his face.

"Aw, fuck you, dykes, your pussy probably smells like a run-down StarKist factory", he wiped his perfect face with a tissue, and then turned around to walk away, but ran straight into Jason Gulliver.
"Hey, Butler", Jason deadpanned.
"Gulliver!" Butler looked nervous. "What are you doing here? I thought you were selling it to homos in Frisco!"
"I had to leave. Your dad wouldn't take no for an answer".
Raquel and Lily laughed behind him.

"You trying to make my girl, you pussy-assed fuck?"
"The hell I am. After I'm done playing tonight I'm going to kick your ass".
"Is that right, chump? Don't write a check your ass can't cash".
"Hnfh!" Fix Butler snorted, pushing by Jason who was trying to crowd him.

Dahlia Doll entered the warehouse, appraising the room, flipping her freshly-cut black hair and wearing a very low cut black tank top with dark blue suspenders holding her leather mini-skirt. A former Ghost Sister who turned on Raquel and Lily, she saw a very furious Flix Butler storm across the room.

"Flix!" Dahlia waved at him. "Oh, Flix! It's Dahlia!"
"Hey, Doll!" Flix stopped and brightened up, running over to her while all the girls leered at him.
"Light my smoke, will ya?" She posed with her hand on her hips and a cig dangling from her lips.
"Sure, baby. Is your stupid boyfriend here tonight?"
"Yeah. It's the reason I'm here, he's playing in a few minutes, I think. Why? Are you playing tonight?"

Friday. 12 Midnight. Sal "Sally" Garfield, the artist who leased the loft and threw the party had the mike.
"MAY I HAVE EVERYONE'S ATTENTION. CHECK, CHECK, WELCOME TO THE INFLATED TEAR! EVERYBODY HAVING A GOOD TIME? THANKS FOR NOT TRASHING THE BATHROOMS OR PUKING IN THE ALLEY...I THINK...ANYWAY, HERE'S THE DEAL. MAGIC LANTERN WERE SCHEDULED TO PLAY TONIGHT BUT THE GUYS IN THE BAND GOT SICK, I THINK IT'S THE SINGER -"

"Fuck New York assholes!" some punk yelled.
"Art fags suck!"
"HEY, I'M KIND OF AN ART FAG SO COOL IT, DICK!"
"CBGB queers! Get out of Hollywood!"
"Yankees suck!"

"ANYWAYS, INSTEAD OF MAGIC LANTERN WE GOT SOME LOCAL PUNKS TO PLAY A FEW BITS FOR US. THEY'RE CALLED THE CHOP SHOP, THEY'RE GONNA RIP YOUR HEADS OFF! WOOOOOO!" Sally Garfield jumped off the jerry-built stage.

The Chop Shop was King Steve on blue Mosrite guitar, Robotman on Slingerland drums, Jason on Farfisa organ, and The Fireball Kid on vocals, with Allen Wrench looking busy adjusting mikes and resetting amplifier levels.

"Kick ass, Jimi Hendrix!"
King Steve pulled the mike away from The Fireball Kid. "Hold it! You say that to every nigger with a guitar? Fuck you, you cracker asshole!"
Everybody cheered. Some people in the audience threw ice cubes at the band. The Fireball Kid grabbed the mike back.
"Okay, jerk-offs this one's called MY LOVE DIED IN YOUR MOUTH 1-2-3-4!"

The band ripped into it and the crowd smashed into each other, twisting and flowing into a wild circle of chaos. Robotman pounded his drums with locomotive ferocity while Jason banged on the keys of his organ with his fists, occasionally hitting the right notes.

The song ended with the audience cheering. Flix Butler and the members of his band were laughing at The Chop Shop like they were some bad cartoon.
"THIS ONE'S CALLED BLITZ AND PIECES!" The Fireball Kid yelled, tossing his flaming red hair around.
The band played a furiously sped-up version of the Dave Clark Five's "Bits and Pieces". The Fireball Kid picked up a bullhorn and sang.

"ALL THE PIECES, BLITZ AND PIECES, NIGHT IS DAY AND DAY IS NIGHT!"
King Steve strangled tortured feedback out of his guitar.Jason banged all the wrong chords on his Farfisa, creating a wash of dissonance over King's guitarisms.
A torrent of spit flew at the band as they played.
"BOOOOO!" Flix and his band yelled at The Chop Shop.

Before the next song started, Jason grabbed the mike from The Fireball Kid.
"Okay, that's it, the next dickhead that gobs on me is gonna be spitting out teeth and blood instead!"
"YAY, JASON!" Everybody cheered.
"I'm serious, you fuckin' assholes".

"This one's for all you Jesus Freaks", Fireball yelled into the mike. "It's called GIVE MY RETARDS TO BROADWAY!"
The band tore into their last number and all was well until Robotman caught Dahlia Doll fondling Flix Butler's dick and reacted by smashing the rack tom. Then he smashed the snare drum. Then he kicked over the bass drum. Then he threw the cymbals across the stage. People applauded, thinking it was part of the act. The band kept playing.

Dahlia, sensing trouble, slipped away from Flix and The Forever Boys into the darkness. The Fireball Kid turned around to see his drummer was gone, so he tossed his mike into the air, which landed on the floor with a dramatic boom, and walked off. King Steve took off his guitar and rested it against the amp, emitting squeals of feedback, which Allen Wrench promptly turned off.

Jason, left alone, began playing the three-note LA Dodgers organ fanfare, and then picked up the fallen mike on the floor.
"Fuck it, we're done!" He barked and then threw the mike back down, walking off the stage.

Friday. 1 AM. The Forever Boys took the stage and launched into their big hit "The Bride Wore Day-Glo". And what a band they were, all dressed in Fiorucci day-glo clothes and Crazy Color dyed hair, one blue, one green, one orange and the other in skunky stripes.

Flix Butler sang and spun his hips for all the girls in the audience, progressively shoving their way to the front of the stage. Jason looked on in disgust. Allen Wrench nudged him.
"Jace, are we going to Atomic Cafe?"
"Not just yet. I have an idea. Follow me!"

Raquel and Lily stopped Jason on the way out.
"Are we going to Atomic Cafe?" Raquel asked.
"Go on ahead. We'll be there in an hour, my treat."
"YES!!!!!" Raquel grabbed Jason and kissed him on the cheek.

Friday. 1:30 AM. The Chop Shop hung out in the alley behind the warehouse. Allen Wrench sucked a tube attached to the gas tank of a blindingly bright green VW Bus.
Jason pulled out a stiletto and gutted the tires of the VW. The bus began sagging to the left, then to the right.

"THAT'S COLD, JASON!" King Steve giggled.
"Hold it down, dick, you want everybody to hear? Are you sure this is their ride?"
"Are you kidding? Look at all these fuckin' Forever Boys stickers".
Robotman scratched his ass, "Yeah, it's a goddamn shrine to themselves".

"They'll never fall in love with their fans 'cause...the can's almost full, man...keep sucking...they love themselves too much". Jason put away his knife.

"You're not gonna believe this", Robotman's chest swelled up, "but fuckin' Shaun Guerin from The Deadbeats saw us play and said my drumming was fuckin' amazing, can you top that?"
"Yeah, I can top that", The Fireball Kid groused, "How about finishing a set without pitching a fit over your fuckin' girlfriend. I was just getting warmed up when you threw your stupid temper tantrum, numb nuts".
"Hold it down, you ass clowns", Jason hissed, "we're committing a major felony, so shut up!"

"So like I was saying, I", Flix Butler, carrying his guitar out the back door, stopped what he was saying in shock at what he saw down below. "HEY!!!!!"
The Forever Boys dropped their instrument cases and charged at Jason and The Chop Shop.
"Just what the fuck do you assholes think you're doing?" Butler shoved Jason.
"We just boosted your gas and trashed your wimp wagon, scumbag".
"I'm gonna kill you, fucker!"

Jason grabbed Flix by the neck and pulled him down, smashing his head into the VW bus fender and Robotman rabbit punched Duggie Prescott to fuck and The Fireball Kid bitch slapped the shit out of Slim Kessel and Allen Wrench field-goal kicked Turk Paley in the balls. King Steve held on to the gas can and jumped from victim to victim, pulling wallets out of their back pockets.

"Busting crimes, stealing dimes", King Steve chortled. Jason held onto Flix's arms while Robotman punched him like a punching bag.
"Try to make my girlfriend, will you, Parrot Puss?" Pow! Pow!
"She's nothing but a whore, asshole", Flix groaned,spitting out blood.
"He's got a point there", Jason added. "But a man's property is a man's property".

Duggie Prescott, Slim Kessel, Turk Paley and Flix Butler penniless and beaten to fuck in a glamorous day-glo semi-comatose state by their trashed VW bus as The Chop Shop marched away having completed their brutal task. The darkness in the alley was quickly violated by the screaming din of ear-splitting sirens wailing from three fire trucks arriving to stop the party. The alley was illuminated by flickering red lights strobing from the trucks all parked in front of the warehouse.

"Atomic Cafe, guys, my treat! Steve, how much money did we get from those dicks?"

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Tom of Finland Does WeHo, Again

I can't think of a more fitting location for a Tom of Finland art exhibit than the Museum of Contemporary Arts (MOCA) in West Hollywood. West Hollywood, known around town as the abbreviated WeHo, is the Christopher Street of Los Angeles where gays, lesbians and like-minded folk can co-exist freely without societal constraints and pressure. Being a big Tom of Finland fan, I attended the newly opened show that he shared with beefcake king Bob Mizer.

For those not familiar with Tom of Finland, my best description of him would be to call him the gay Bill Ward. His erotic illustrations of sexually virile men is comparable to Ward's depiction of his sexually aroused vixens: both are depicted as enormously attractive individuals with grotesquely enormous genitalia sending them in a constant state of sexual ardor.

A Tom of Finland male proudly and even defiantly wears only the most fetishistic clothes: Navy uniforms, cowboy clothes, motorcycle leathers, police uniforms and denim trousers so tight they almost seem painted on. Bulging, nay, practically fighting its way out of every pair of trousers are biologically impossible swollen pair of testes and endlessly long penises in the history of art. Interestingly enough, the comparison to Ward continues in the way Tom shades his figures in the same style as Ward.

Tom's depiction of sexual situations always maintain a bizarrely cheerful air about them, even when men are being tied up or gang-banged. There's never a display of brutality or even aggression a la John Willie in his erotica. It's as if Tom of Finland's pictures are having a party and it's freaking everybody out!

Tom's artwork graced the covers of a digest-sized magazine for men called "Physique Pictorial" which also employed the brilliant paintings of George Quaintance, another artist who depicted homosexuality as an erotic happyland Utopia, as well. Another regular to the gay digest was popular beefcake photographer Bob Mizer, co-billed with Tom at MOCA.

How can I describe Bob Mizer? If the straights had Bunny Yeager then the gays had Bob Mizer. It is estimated that Mizer shot over a million beefcake shots in his legendary career. Mizer's photography is as meat and potatoes man love as it gets, with a few twists along the way: one naked model is dressed like an Aztec god, another in Superman drag, and of course the mandatory cowboys, sailors and motorcycle boys. Guaranteed crowd pleasers, of course.

To see more of Mizer's work, check out the massive collection "Bob's World", available from Taschen Books. I liked his fantasy photography more than his more static shots, but then again he knew his audience and they wanted, well, you know. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the show, which opened on November 2, 2013 and will run until January 26, 2014.

Friday, November 1, 2013

Happy Birthday Grace Slick

For this year's annual tribute to Scorpio birthdays I'd like to talk about the brilliant tornado that is Grace Slick, just turned 74 years old on October 30th this past week. A fearless, foolish, frequently outrageous artist always willing to take risks and in the process influence tens of thousands of female rock singers during and after her fame, she is a rock icon like no other.

There has never been a female artist as irrepressible as Grace Slick prior to her arrival on the music scene. In the mid-Sixties female artists were delicate, controlled, and easily led; but with genius, beauty and style Grace Slick arrived and changed the way women performed and appeared in the public eye. Artists like Patti Smith, Courtney Love and an endless conveyor belt of Diva of the Weeks owe her a tremendous debt of gratitude.

Grace's first band was in 1964 with her husband Jerry Slick (her name was originally Grace Wing) and his brother Darby named The Great Society. In 1966 they recorded what was to be her most memorable songs, "Somebody To Love" and "White Rabbit". One year later she left the band to replace Signe Anderson in Jefferson Airplane. With her pin-up model looks and intense beatnik style the Jefferson Airplane acquired a distinctive image to compliment their excellent musicianship.

Grace Slick's intense vocals in Jefferson Airplane were virtually unheard of in rock music up to that point and were the most intense female vocals heard at the time. Beginning with "Surrealistic Pillow" Grace forged a new sound in rock, combining beat poetry with vocals that effortlessly blended jazz ala Carmen McRae with then-popular folk rock melodiousness.

While Paul Kantner and Marty Balin wrote excellent folk tunes and Jorma Kaukonen wrote tough blues songs, a Grace Slick song promised a sophisticated, jazzy melody with a powder keg of lyrics about to explode. Her songs were works to be reckoned with.

Whether it was singing about a boy with arrested development in "Lather" or a filthy, polluted planet on "Eskimo Blue Day", no other female vocalist tore away at pompous masculine pride with feminist rage as she did with songs like "Two Heads", "Greasy Heart" or "Hey Frederick". And just as you're about to dismiss her as a bull-busting bitch she slips in a song as cool and surrealistic as "reJoyce", a gorgeous jazz piece based on the writings of James Joyce. Very, very bohemian.

Grace kept up with her male peers like Jim Morrison in the outrage department, too: performing in blackface on The Smothers Brothers Show, naming her publicly born-out-of-wedlock daughter "god", flashing her breasts onstage so many times it became shock-less, acts simultaneously outrageous and feminist setting new standards.

She can be forgiven her many excesses, alcoholism, fighting with countless boyfriends and policemen, and the crass, milquetoast New Wave band Starship whom boiled down their name from Kantner's original combo "Jefferson Starship". She can even be forgiven for making certain remarks that were bound to offend just about anyone with a pair of ears, but like all outlaws she probably wouldn't give a shit, anyway. That's punk as fuck.

Nice behavior or not, there's the records, some of the most unforgettable I've ever heard. It's amazing that nearly forty five years after the release of her records Grace Slick's lyrics and vocals can still send chills through me. And look beautiful doing it, too.

Suggested Reading:

Somebody To Love? A Rock and Roll Memoir
Grace Slick (with Andrea Cragan)
Warner Books

The Jefferson Airplane and the San Francisco Sound
Ralph J. Gleason
Ballantine Books

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Wreck Creation (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 4our)

11:45 AM. Downtown Los Angeles. Jason had some concerns about the boys’ lack of experience in handling firearms, so he called Robotman and asked him to get the gang together and engage in some target practice at the Los Angeles Gun Club downtown. The five of them converged in the parking lot.

“Now remember, you fuckin’ knuckleheads, this isn’t a bowling alley or some shit like that”, Jason advised. “There's some pretty heavy fucks in here so let’s go a little light on the clownabilly shit”.
“Sure, Jason, don’t blow a gasket”, King Steve said, looking visibly hurt at being admonished in advance.

The five yobs of varying hair and skin colors entered and immediately got the fish eye from a heavy set middle-aged man with cop hair and a handlebar moustache wearing a stained, khaki green polo shirt.

“Can I help you boys?” he blurted slowly as he chewed on a thick chaw of tobacco.
"We're here to partake of your quality firearms and your savage shooting range", Jason bullshitted.
The desk clerk sized them up sideways. "Do you guys even have any money? You all look like you don't have two pennies to rub together".

Big Jason pulled out a healthy wad of cold cash. Everybody, especially the desk flunky's eyes widened.
"Read the green - we came to shoot - are we locked and loaded?"
The flunky nervously licked his fat, purple lips. "Pull out your ID's and they better be real. I don't want no monkey business from you fellas, either!"
Jason pulled the most serious face of his life. "My word is my bond, my man".

Four firing booths were taken: Big Jason squeezing off a Colt .45, Robotman blasting off a ridiculously long-barreled .357 Magnum, almost spending as much time posing as he did shooting, Allen Wrench slowly popping shots off with a .38 Special, and King Steve and The Fireball Kid sharing a booth alternating shots with a Baretta PX4 Storm as nervously as two grown men can possibly be.

Jason took a break from shooting and strolled behind his men watching their gun work, nodding his head at the mutilated targets across the range, appraising their gun play, correcting the way Allen held his .38, and kicking King Steve's legs further out so the stance was better planted for gunfire.
"Good, good, very good", he mumbled as he strolled by them, inspecting their work, all to deaf ears since they had earplugs on.

Every once in awhile someone would blow their cool and holler "WHOOOO!" firing like crazy and posing like a badass cowboy.
When Allen Wrench got his spent target back he draped it around his chest proudly.
"Now this would make a totally killer t-shirt. I'm gonna wear this fuckin' target at the next Skulls show".
"Fuck yeah!" King Steve hollered.

"Nice work, you guys. You make me proud!" Jason snorted. He spun towards his target and ripped four rapid shots that tore up the bulls eye and left the paper hanging in half. He took out his ear plugs and decided to leave them out because he loved the noise of guns popping off.

"Say, that's some mighty good shootin' you got there, brother", A policeman dressed in blues and a badge put his hand on Jason's shoulder, beaming proudly. "Have you ever considered a promising career in The Force?"
"Fuck no, I don't want to be some fuckin' pig".

In less than five minutes all five punks were tossed out of The Gun Club.
"God, Jason. What the fuck did you have to pop off like that for? I was squeezing off some sweet shots!" The Fireball Kid whined.
"Bullshit, you and Steve were shooting like a coupl'a chicks at The County Fair. You pussies were jumping like the gun was gonna bite your dick off".

"That pig could'a run us in".
"I gotta call it like I see it. Fuck him".

*************************

12:55 PM. Marina Del Rey. Just to ensure the day wasn't a total washout they went to Dockweiler Beach. The afternoon was unusually cold so the normally crowded beach was empty. The guys sat by a fire pit roasting frankfurters and marshmallows together and drinking tequila.

A bomber joint passed hands and everyone took turns taking drags, looking at each other with big smiles. They chortled and made fun of each other and occasionally screamed when a low flying airplane zoomed above them with its supersonic rumble and tail of burning smoke leaving its monstrous trail in the sky.

"It won't be long, guys. All that money, all ours. This I promise", Jason vowed.
King Steve shoved some batteries into his cassette player and turned it on, blasting some 999, The Adverts, Ramones, The Damned, Devo, The Zeros and tons more.
The Fireball Kid was lying back and fading fast from all the food and booze. "Ah, this is too good".
Voices started fading into the distance for him.

"There's some good fishing in Frisco...."
"My dad was a Petty Officer in the Navy...even has a Jap flag to show for it..."
"I saw this film where piranhas tore up this cow...it was brutal...."
Ocean waves crashing in the background. A low-flying TWA jet rumbling and whistling so you can barely hear their voices. The Fireball Kid lifted his head up and Robotman smiled at him.

"X, The Controllers and The Alleycats...I got a ride to The Fleetwood but my ride left me high and dry...I had to fuck this fat girl to get a ride back home...I never sweated so much in my life..."
"Is that the girl who wears that smelly Cramps t-shirt to every show..."
"We should just move to Alcatraz Island, bro..."
Ocean waves crashed in the background. A Cessna 182 Skylane grumbled loudly above in the sky. The Fireball Kid's eyes shut lightly and the voices were now gone.

************************

The Fireball Kid quickly stirred quickly when he felt heat on his face as if it was catching fire. Opening his eyes slowly he saw lit matches being thrown in his face. The next thing he knew someone was kicking him in the ribs, hard.

"I heard these punks like getting spit on".
"Hey, Punk, you like being spit on?"
"Hahahahah".

Sitting upright on his elbows, The Fireball Kid noticed his friends were all gone and in their place were four guys, three white, one black. One wore an old vintage Sixties suit, another wore a parka with a hairy sweater and the other two wore Fred Perry white tennis sweaters. They all wore Ben Sherman pegged trousers and Hush Puppies. They wore their hair cropped short. They were four Mods and surrounded him, hating the sight of him.

The black guy got in his face. "Hey boy, yeah you boy, get up. Punk white boy! You Darby Vicious, you fuck?"
"You Arthur Ashe with your faggot tennis outfit?" The Fireball Kid returned.
"FUCK YOU, WHITE BOY! Get up!"
"Tell him, Warren", the Mod in the parka chewed on some gum, grinning from ear to ear.
The Fireball Kid got up nervously, considering his options. How do I get out of this? Fuck!

"Hey Bruce, I heard these punks like to choke each other when they dance", the Mod in the suit re-adjusted his tinted glasses.
"Let's choke him. On the count of four, ha! One..."
"Today's your big day, Punk!"
"...Two..." The Mods edged in closer.
"You wanna be a Dead Kennedy, White Boy?"
"...Three..."
BOOOM!!!!!!!

The Mods turned around to see Big Jason, Robotman, King Steve and Allen Wrench standing behind them. Wrench had a Colt .45 in his right hand held up in the air.

"I'm sorry", Big Jason fluttered his eyelashes. "Are we interrupting something?"
"Let's get these fucks, boys", Warren growled. "I'll take the big guy".
"You take them, Warren", Bruce stammered. "They're packing heat".

And they were. All four of the yobs pulled out guns from the back of their jeans and aimed them at the Mods.
"Very observant, and by the way, there's four of you and five of us. That's what's called a math problem. A BIG problem".

"I like these boys, Jason", Allen Wrench grinned. "They dress real cute. Like a barbershop quartet".
"Hush Puppies, huh?" Jason smiled. "How menacing! What's it say on that button, Andy Williams?"
The Mod in the parka nervously said, "Secret Affair, asshole, what's it to you?"
"Secret Affair?" King Steve chuckled. "Shit, is that what all you boys are having with each other?" The punks all chortled at the joke.

"We Are The Mods, fuck you punks!"
"These guys are like bad comic books, Jason", Allen Wrench revolved his pistol aim from Mod to Mod.
Jason scratched his chin, thinking. "Okay, since you love our friend so much, here's what we'll do. All of you, take your clothes off. C'mon, MOVE IT! You, Secret Affair, take that snow plow tuxedo off. Off with the pants, too!"

"What are you gonna do, kill us?" The Mod in the suit gave his best angry look, tears welling up in his eyes behind the tinted shades.
"They're gonna rape us. These punks are gay and they're gonna pull a train on all of us", the white Mod in the tennis sweater whined, trembling.
"Nothing like that, Perry Como", Jason waved his Luger at the stripping Mods. "Step it up, you preppy fucks".

All of the Mods were stripped down to their boxers and shivering, save Warren who stood tall, black and defiant to Jason.
"Alright, Johnny Mathis, what's the problem? I told you to strip".
"FUCK YOU, WHITE MOTHERFUCK!" Warren spit in Jason's face.

"Okay, that tears it", Jason wiped the spittle off and stared hard at Warren. "Allen, remember those scooters we saw on top of the hill?"
"I can see them right here, Jason", Allen smiled, knowing what was going to happen next.

"You see that pretty fucking purple scooter with all those fruity little mirrors? I'll bet that's Johnny Mathis' circus spinner. Isn't that right, Johnny Mathis?"
"Fuck you!"

Allen turned towards the hill and fired off two shots, one at the rear tire of the purple Vespa, flattening it, and the other bullet shattering the windshield.
"Missed!" Allen gritted his teeth. "Fuckin' queer scooters!"
He squeezed off another shot at the rear of the bike, hitting the gas tank, the scooter blowing up, clouds of smoke billowing out from the hill. BOOOOOOM!

The explosion terrified the Mods so much they took off all their clothes and stood before the punks naked. Warren came unglued, his face twitching uncontrollably and began stripping.

"You see how it is now, don't you?" Jason smiled. "Take it all off, boys. Now throw all of your pants here or you'll get the same treatment Johnny Mathis' scooter got".
The pants now all thrown at Jason's feet, King Steve jumped over and grabbed all the wallets and pocketed them.

"Oh my God, look at their dark, deformed dicks! HOHOHOHOHOO!" The Fireball Kid hooted and the other guys laughed.
"We're going to play a game, it's called The Shrinking Violet, it's a game you're gonna love, honest to God, I want you all to run into the ocean and go as far in as you can. Move, Perry Como, you too, Andy Williams", Jason ordered, his finger still on the pistol trigger.

Robotman started shooting in the air, screaming. The naked Mods all ran into the ocean fearing for their lives and shivering from the cold water.
"Farther!"
Allen shot out the other three scooters on the hill, watching them topple over one by one.

"Gawd, Jason", King Steve grabbed the rest of their clothes and threw them into a waste can. "These guys are stupider than I thought".
"You don't know the half of it, kid. They're all huddled by the sewage pipe. They'll be shitting mildew for the next six months!"

And indeed, the four naked Mods were shivering in the water right by the sewage pipe that drained out into the ocean.

The sun finally setting, Big Jason and his henchmen walked up the hill with Allen Wrench holding up the rear with his gun still trained on the Mods as they left the beach with their new found swag.

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Needles and Thread and The Whole Damn Thing

Well, Autumn's here and a young man's fancy turns to tops, warmer, stretchy tops. Pictured above is a quick black and blue top I made with a low scoop neck and chunky cuffs, just the way I like it. The quasi-femininity of the pattern is offset by a more masculine color palette. The end result is a top that surfs between both genders but in the long run exudes a mod look that's appealing for both boys and girls alike.
Another project that's been floating my boat are shoe bags, and lots of them. Disgusted with clunky shoe boxes that allow cockroaches to move into and better than those shoe trees with their tiny pockets that won't accommodate your chunkier boots, your best bet is to simply sew a few awesome shoe bags. I like really radiant material that gleams as much as the boots inside.
Pictured are three bags in particular: the glam bag with black stars is the bag I keep my Fluevog Prince George high heels in; the blue op art bag keeps my Doc Martens Langston petrol patent boots, and the gold paisley bag holds my gorgeous H by Hudson Alaska boots. Let them wear boots, but cover them in fabrics as exciting as the kinky kicks themselves!
**********************
One of the more peculiar pleasures to be had driving around West Los Angeles is the bizarre double-billboard spectacle on the corner of Santa Monica and Sepulveda Blvds. monopolized by the now deceased clothes designer Bijan Pakzad, known more commonly as simply "Bijan". A Persian emigre who became the toast of Eighties Beverly Hills, his entire style was one of obscene opulence - my first exposure to him was three-page ads in Vanity Fair every month (!) espousing The Bijan Philosophy. Some of his remarks were lame ("There's no sight more beautiful than a pregnant woman") while others were kind of funny ("Wisdom's a gift but you'd trade it for youth").
He drove around in a bright yellow Rolls Royce, yes the big vintage ones and even designed a Limited Edition Bugatti, also bright yellow. Yes, Bijan had made it into fashion history, even garnering a mention in none other than the movie American Psycho - "Not the Bijan!" Patrick Bateman firmly commands Sabrina the hooker.
Bijan was the ultimate Beverly Hills Persian made good and lived large, well, up until 2011, when he suffered a fatal stroke. But even his tragic passing could not forestall the continuous flow of billboards showing his deliriously happy smiling face. After his passing the billboard on the western side of SM and Sepulveda announced "The Legend...BIJAN!" with Mr. Pakzad smiling from the beyond, letting us know he's still keeping tabs on things in West LA. Now the billboard on the eastern side announced, "The Legacy...BIJAN!" with his young heir Nicolas cracking a similar goofy smile.
Several months passed by and Nicolas seemed rather shy by posting new billboards that displayed the luxe line that captivated Beverly Hills. No pictures of Dad or himself, at all. Will this be the new standard? No more smiley faces? Could this be the future of Bijan???
Hell, no! Two months passed by and the new billboards are out with the newer, au courant Bijan smiling reassuringly at us from both billboards, proclaiming, "BIJAN...Designer For Men!" Hope has returned to the Westside. Take that, Ralph Lauren!
**********************
If there's anything more exciting than fashion magazines it's stumbling upon some great books about fashion, and I've recently had the pleasure of enjoying two great ones.
The first book is "Bespoke: Savile Row Ripped And Smoothed" by tailor extraordinaire Richard Anderson. Bespoke is one of the best books written about menswear and is absolutely mandatory reading for anyone involved in the craft of tailoring at all.
Anderson goes into great instructional detail all through the book on how to best fit a suit or pants on someone with an uneven body - like 99% of us out there. He explains how to even out a higher shoulder or a lower leg and make everything perfectly fitted. There's a wealth of information in his book that you'll find indispensable, complete with an excellent glossary of tailoring terms. There's also a fairly amusing back story on Abercrombie & Fitch that has to be read to be believed!
The other gem is "Couture Hats" by Louis Bou. Couture Hats has page after page of avant garde hats that stand somewhere between the corner of Alexander McQueen and Paco Rabanne. Even if you're not crazy about hats in general this is still an excellent standalone fashion photography book.
Part of the enjoyment of Couture Hats is picking your favorite designer. My favorite milliner is Stephen Jones for his broad scope of versatility. His designs run the gamut from classic Forties Black Widow noir chapeaux to demented Mardi Gras nightmare chapeaus and beyond.
Both books are available wherever good books are sold and Couture Hats is available on Kindle, too. Both books are highly recommended by me, the man in the polka dot top and silver biker jeans. Aloha.

Friday, October 4, 2013

The International Morphine Variations

I have a tendency to connect certain areas to events in my life, so whenever I'm in the Miracle Mile District I think of Morphine. This is due to the unforgettable show they played at the El Rey Theater on Wilshire Blvd.

Supporting their "Like Swimming" album (1995), it was one of their last L.A. performances before band leader Mark Sandman's untimely death. The show was a colossal feast of wild and raucous sounds, hitting every nerve in my body and reminding me why music changed my life forever.

A power trio consisting of an explosive drummer, a fiery baritone saxophonist who literally doubled on tenor sax a la Roland Kirk and a cool singer who looked more like Richard Hell than Hell himself and played a grungy slide bass. Morphine's eccentric musicianship perfectly suited a bizarre repertoire of dark but highly melodic blues songs.

Their sound had a simultaneously urban and rural style that I found uncanny, the slide bass dredging images of murky Southern swamps and the growly sax bursting out cinematic scenes of psychotic detectives shooting guns at brick-lined housing projects.

When I had my band Cockfight I tried to get my bassist to play with a slide in tribute to Mr. Sandman, but the resident jughead couldn't appreciate the concept and refused. Opting instead for a lousy chorus pedal - how Goth - I unplugged it and told him to expand his horizons.

Anyway, posted here for your entertainment are a few covers of Morphine songs from various bands. Whether you like the way they're covered or not doesn't matter; the point is that Mark Sandman wrote a lot of songs that people to this day love listening and playing, the mark of a truly great artist.

Night Shark are a Morphine tribute band from Amsterdam, Holland and play a pretty faithful version of "Thursday" complete with slide bass and growly bari sax. Good work.

Indie & The Jones do a damned wicked hard rock cover of "Honey White" with a wah-wah pedal guitar doing all the sax lines. The harmonies on the chorus sound surprisingly cool and add to the song. I think they added a good spin to the original. Very acid rock and audacious enough to be fun.

Then we have a Morphine cover band from Bulgaria (!) doing "Super Sex" and playing it with an almost wholesome Gerry & The Pacemakers luvvability. Dig those mad Bulgar boho chicks mouthing the lyrics to Super Sex. Weird! As weird as that scary Italian cover of Sonic Youth's "Starpower" that sounded just like Journey!

The last video on this blog comes from post-Morphine band Twinemen featuring Dana Colley and Billy Conway playing with bassist/singer Laurie Sargeant. "Spinner" is a great song and compliments Mark Sandman's oeuvre just fine. Long live the Sandman.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Cleaner Than A Broke Dick Dog

Miles Davis, in his autobiography refers several times to anyone with badass-cum-suave style as someone who's "cleaner than a broke dick dog". While most jazz musicians of the Fifties and Sixties had crazy cool style a few really stand out for me, the reason being that in addition to being terrific players they had wicked sartorial style going on that complemented their music. While everyone knows Miles was legendary for being a fashion plate with his beautifully tailored Italian suits there were some other guys that were equally as slick.

One jazz icon who instantly comes to mind for his great fashion style is legendary pianist Hampton Hawes. A bebop and post-bop artist with male model looks, Hawes was always pictured wearing the smartest tailored suits and striking the most smoldering looks at the camera.

There was always something haunting about Hawes and his troubled life which he documented in his memoir, "Raise Up Off Me", co-written with jazz writer Gary Giddins. In addition to being one of the sharpest dressed musicians in jazz he bears the distinction of having his prison term pardoned by President John F. Kennedy in his last year as President. Legendary stuff.

Another legendary player who filled out his threads with crazy cool was pianist Horace Silver, one of MIles' favorite pianists. Silver is best known for his immortal recording "Song For My Father", one of the ten most popular jazz compositions of all time. A funky blues-style player who could finesse any style of music, Silver's image is that of a hipster with neatly processed hair wildly tousled as he intensely attacks his keyboard. With his clothes still neatly pressed! That's crazy cool.

Like Hawes, many of Silver's albums shows him resplendent in a beautifully tailored suit and tie, bespoke probably - the fit's just too good. Nowadays Silver dresses more casually but still looks neat as a pin. As I get older, I find this look much more admirable than the" heroin-chic I just fell out of bed" type look. It gives me hope. Despair doesn't win the day anymore.

Illinois Jacquet was arguably the founding father of R&B saxophone, born from his wildly honking tenor sax solo on Lionel Hampton's record "Flying Home". Jacquet, who shares the same birthday as me (10/31, different year) always counterbalanced his raw, abrasive saxophone playing with the some of the sharpest suits worn in jazz.

Like Horace Silver he also had smooth hair - his mother was Native American - and also was a pioneer for being the first jazz musician to be artist-in-residence at Harvard University in 1983. He also jammed saxes with President Bill Clinton at his inaugural ball at the White House in 1993. Now that's crazy cool.

While I don't seriously expect every musician to bust out a Brooks Brothers suit and Florsheim shoes to rock the room the point I'm really trying to make is that fashion and a clear sense of personal style can be the greatest compliment to whatever music you choose to play. Because long after the music's over everyone will remember the way you looked, and you only have one chance to make it count.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Every Bitch For Himself

12:45 PM. Union Station, Los Angeles. A tall man in his twenties with a torn t-shirt and Army boots strode out the front entrance of the train station with a grip in his hand looking around for an automobile. He fetched dozens of stares with his full head of silver hair, an almost artificial silver paint tone of hair. His name was Big Jason Gulliver. He quietly cussed out of his long, thin face which looked like the craggy side of a mountain. "Fuck!"

Holding his temper, he stomped over to a phone booth and plunked two dimes in, racked the dial seven times and waited.
"Hello?"
"I'M HERE PICK ME UP YA FUCKIN' CHIMP!" barked Jason and hung up.

Jason stoically stood at the curb waiting for his ride when a sleek Mercedes Benz convertible slowly cruised by, piloted by a middle-aged man with feathered hair, aviator glasses and a dark moustache. The Bee Gees were whimpering a disco song out of his car radio. The driver appraised Jason, who simply snorted two times and then hocked a huge sluice of green loogie just barely missing the expensive auto. The driver frowned and sped away in a huff.

HONKHONK!
"HEY FUCKER!" yelled a skinny blonde out the window of a dirty and dented 1974 Chevrolet Vega.
"Finally!" Jason yelled back. "You were supposed to be here already. Some homecoming, asshole!"
"BBIIIIIGGGG....JASON! Hahahaha! Get in the Shit Box!"
Jason piled in to the Vega, which made a point of making the loudest screech, tires burning the asphalt, earning everybody's attention.

1:00 PM. Allen Wrench drove the Vega going west down Sunset Boulevard, popping in a cassette of The Vibrators, screaming "YEAH!YEAH!YEAH!"
"Big Guy! Good to see ya back! What the fuck?"
"Good to be back from Frisco".
"How was San Fran?"
"A lot of pot smokers, ehhhh, even the punks smoked dope, it was lame. All the bands there thought they were like Richard Hell or some shit. A lot of poetry, a lot of art shit".

"That sucks, Bubs. Bet you're glad to be back!"

"Yeah, back in LA. Got some big plans, too...what's that fuckin' smell?"
"What? What smell?"
"It's like something's cooking, you know, burning Crisco, like a bad breakfast", Jason wrinkled his nose.
"It's the Vega, Buddy. Burns oil like crazy and smells like a horse turd".

Jason picked up a red licorice whip in a bag and it was melted into a weird shape. He chewed part of it and gave up. Allen Wrench's face lit up.
"Hey! Did you hear the news? Sack Face died last week, OD'd on some bad junk, probably cut with rat poison or some shit. Found him in a puddle of piss with his face looking bluer than the Scientology building".
"Sack Face died? No shit? Anybody tell his Mom?"
"Not me. Fuck that noise!"

Wrench wheeled the car over to the curb, making another screeching stop. "Welcome back!"
Jason leaned over to Alan. "Can you get the guys together tonight? I've got some big plans. Money making plans".
"Sure thing. And we can have a little send-off for Sack Face in style".
Big Jason smiled and winked. "Set it up for me, willya?"

Big Jason and Allen Wrench got inside an apartment that had beat furniture, an open Murphy Bed in the corner, singles, albums, and punk clothes strewn all over the floor.
"He's here!" Wrench yelled and raced off into his bedroom.
"Jason is that you?" a girls' voice yelled from the kitchen.
"I smell bacon and eggs. Is that for me?"

A tall, slender girl with dark skin ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had short, spiky black hair with bright red streaks shooting through.
"No! This is for you!" she ran over and kissed him in a tight embrace.
"Enough with the kisses. How about the food?"
"Not ready yet. How was Frisco?"
"It was damper than a baby's shit pants. Too many fat fuckin' punks, too. They oughta drop and do twenty".
"Hahaha, Jason. You're a fuckin' card!" laughed Raquel Tequila.

Raquel Tequila wasn't Latina at all, in fact she was high yellow and her real name was Selma Franks. Her resemblance to Raquel Welch and her fondness for eating only Tortilla chips and drinking cheap Thrifty Drug Store Tequila without throwing up earned her the name of Raquel Tequila. She had the most intense pair of hazel eyes and they were virtually hypnotic.

While Big Jason shoveled the food down his maw Raquel smoked a cigarette and kept ruffling his hair, delighted it was painted electric silver with black streaks.
"BJ! Who did your hair!"
"Now don't call me BJ unless you're planning on doing it!"
"Shut up, Jason!" she laughed, punching him in the arm.

"You took down The Clash photos and put up some Weirdos and Dickies pics. Cool!"
"Yeah, I'm not too hot on The Clash this week since Mick Jones grew out that hippie hair".
"Poseur", he blurted and gulped a glass of Hawaiian Punch.
Raquel took a drag of her smoke and brightened up. "Hey, did you hear about Sack Face?"
"Yeah. Sack Face died. Maybe we should put up a collection and raise something for him".
"Don't bother. Lily made an anonymous phone call to the cops and they picked up his body".
"Lily? She still working at the club?"
"Yeah, she even pinned a note on his chest with his parents' phone number on it".
Jason chortled. "Accommodating bitch".

3:00 PM. Jason Gulliver sprawled out on a bench in the laundromat watching his clothes spinning around. He looked around cautiously, leaned over his army fatigue pants and reached down to his ankle, feeling for the Colt .45 strapped inside his army boot. A little Mexican boy ran up to him and stared at his silver hair, making Jason straighten up and pull his eyelids down, making a Frankenstein face. The boy ran away frightened.

Jason tapped his foot nervously, humming "We Got The Neutron Bomb" to himself, wishing he had that melted licorice whip on him now. A buff punk in paint splattered jeans and cowboy boots came in snapping his fingers. He had a forked out thatch of brown hair with the back and sides of his head shaved off so that he looked like Fred Flintstone.

"Jace! Back from Frisk!"
"Robotman! Sit down, fag!" Jason pushed some newspapers with Jimmy Carter's face on the front page out of the way.
Robotman jerkily sat down and twitched a little. "Long time, man. Doin' your wash?"
"Never mind that. What are you doing for money these days?"
"You know I'm still working at the club".

"Ah, fuck that, there's no money in that shit. I have a way we can kick up some serious scratch. Are you with me?"
"Fuck, Jason, I'm your man, you know that. What do you have in mind?"
"I'll tell you and the guys later. Your brother still a big gun collector?"
"Yeah, that dick loves his guns. Even sleeps with one under his pillow".

Jason nodded his head, thinking. "Good....good...you still with Crazy Dahlia?"
"Don't call her that, it's just Dahlia, she's a cool girl".
"No she's not and look down your pants every once in awhile to make sure you still have your balls attached if she hasn't ripped them off yet".
"Aw c'mon, Jason".

"I'm calling a meeting at the garage tonight. Get there about tennish and don't squeak a word of it to Dahlia, understand?"
"Alright, Jason, don't get pissed". Robotman got up and jerkily stretched himself. "Gotta return the car, Dahlia needs it, see ya tonight".
Robotman dashed out of the laundromat, snapping his fingers again. Jason chuckled bitterly. "Pussy whipped".

Peering around the corner of a washing machine was the little boy looking for more horrifying faces. Jason ignored him, threw his head back and closed his eyes. The little boy made a pistol with his hand and pretend shot at him.
"Chooooooshhhh!"

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.